“Well, I don’t want him near me, either!” cried all the other little girls at once. Ralph glanced up at them frowning, from where he knelt with his middle finger crooked behind a marble ready for a shot. He looked as he always did, very rough and half-threatening. “Oh, you girls make me sick!” he said. He sent his marble straight to the mark, pocketed his opponent’s, and stood up, scowling at the little mothers. “I guess if you had to live the way he does you’d be dirty! Half the time he don’t get anything to eat before he comes to school, and if my mother didn’t put up some extra for him in my box he wouldn’t get any lunch either. And then you go and jump on him!”
“Why doesn’t his own mother put up his lunch?” Betsy challenged their critic.
“He hasn’t got any mother. She’s dead,” said Ralph, turning away with his hands in his pockets. He yelled to the boys, “Come on, fellers, beat-che to the bridge and back!” and was off, with the others racing at his heels.
“Well, anyhow, I don’t care; he is dirty and horrid!” said Stashie emphatically, looking over at the drooping, battered little figure, leaning against the school door, listlessly kicking at a stone.
But Betsy did not say anything more just then.
The teacher, who “boarded ’round,” was staying at Putney Farm at that time, and that evening, as they all sat around the lamp in the south room, Betsy looked up from her game of checkers with Uncle Henry and asked, “How can anybody drink up stockings?”
“Mercy, child! what are you talking about?” asked Aunt Abigail.
Betsy repeated what Anastasia Monahan had said, and was flattered by the instant, rather startled attention given her by the grown-ups. “Why, I didn’t know that Bud Walker had taken to drinking again!” said Uncle Henry. “My! That’s too bad!”
“Who takes care of that child anyhow, now that poor Susie is dead?” Aunt Abigail asked of everybody in general.
“Is he just living there alone, with that good-for-nothing stepfather? How do they get enough to eat?” said Cousin Ann, looking troubled.